


how fast the evening passes

by meridies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Two weeks into his first semester at university, Tommy is unceremoniously expelled. He returns home in shame.But it's not justhisactions that throw their family into upheaval— what really does the trick is Wilbur, also returning home from a budding career in Los Angeles, purely because of Tommy's mistakes. As Techno and Phil struggle to find their footing in a house that has suddenly reunited, the four of them attempt to become a family once more.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 183
Kudos: 720





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fic originated from techno's quote in mcc5 where he says "i feel like my little brother just came back from college expelled." and it was supposed to be a oneshot. then i wrote 30k words for it because i have no self restraint. 
> 
> mild cw: mentions of smoking. enjoy!

Tommy returns home in shame. 

Shame may be too kind of a word for it. More accurately, he returns home with his tail between his legs, all false bravado drained away. Head ducked, cheeks red, burning from the humiliation of it all. He doesn’t talk when he greets them in the airport, and he keeps his shoulders hunched the entirety of the drive home. 

It’s smart, too, because Phil takes one look at the email he receives and nearly explodes.

_Expelled._ Two weeks into his freshman year at university. 

Techno sits in his room and hears the words fly outside, burning and hot. 

_“It’s not my fault, if you had seen the shit that—”_

_“I don’t care what happened, I care that twenty five thousand dollars were wasted on this—”_

_“I’m sorry! What else can I say! I did my best—”_

_“Your best was two weeks worth? Is that all you have to offer?”_

_“Sorry I’m a fuck up, then, what else do you want me to apologize for?”_

Techno turns the music up on his headphones and refuses to listen, although every word sears itself into his soul. The drum beats directly into his heart. 

All through the night, Techno hears them argue with each other. It fades from riotous and violent shouting into quiet but fierce bickering. By the time Techno finally gets some fitful sleep, they’ve finally quieted down. Tommy slams a few doors in the meantime. Phil shouts himself hoarse. Techno suspects that none of them get a lick of sleep. 

The morning sun shines through the windows, dappled and filtering through the blinds. Techno blinks awake, although it feels like he hasn’t slept at all. The words from last night are still ringing through his head. He almost wants to stay in his room, dissolve into the mattress, until everything around him has faded away.

Techno blearily checks his phone, still sleepy and in bed, and freezes.

The text reads: _I heard about Tommy. My flight lands tonight._

Techno rereads it again, just to make sure that he isn’t dreaming. 

And then again, and then again. On the fourth read, Techno finally accepts it as fact. 

Techno sighs. 

He doesn’t know what he expected. 

Techno pushes himself out of bed and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee. He’s gotten into it recently, although anyone who knows him would swear that Techno’s been addicted to coffee for years now. He takes his with two creams, five sugars, just sweet and milky enough that he can barely taste the coffee at all. 

Tommy is the next to emerge from his room. He still hasn’t recovered from whatever verbal lashing Phil gave him, clearly, because his cheeks are ruddy like he’s been crying. Tommy crosses over to the fridge and stares determinedly at the milk inside. 

“Good morning,” Techno says politely.

Tommy’s glare is fierce. “Gonna make fun of me, too?”

“I didn’t say anything about that.” 

“You’re thinking about it.”

Pointedly, Techno says, “I _think_ you’re projecting.” 

Tommy slams the fridge, brushes past him, shoulders him too harshly. “Just give me a heads up when you’re going to put me on blast, okay? Because Phil already yelled at me last night, and I’m really not in the fucking mood to hear it from you too.”

Everything about him is braced with bravado and false courage. Techno sucks in a breath, knowing he’s about to shatter all of that, and he says, “Wilbur texted me.”

Tommy gapes at him.

“He’s flying back tonight,” Techno adds. 

The milk carton falls from Tommy’s hands and splashes over the floor. It’s almost comical.

“Clean that up,” Techno says dismissively, though he’s fairly sure he would have the same reaction if he were in Tommy’s shoes.

Face red, Tommy fumbles to pick up the carton and for some paper towels. He mops up the milk messily and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. 

Voice hushed, Tommy says, “Is he really?”

“Guess that’s proof that you really fucked up.”

“Thanks,” Tommy mutters, almost an automatic response. His voice is sour. “I wanted another reminder of it.”

“There’s no need to be angry at me,” Techno says. “Save it for him.” 

“Is he really coming back?” Tommy repeats, and there’s a sick sense of dread working its way into his words. Like he can’t possibly believe that Wilbur is returning, and at the same time, the reality of it is sickening and thick.

“He told me himself,” Techno says, and ignores how the eight words that Wilbur sent him are eating away at him as well. “He said his flight lands tonight.”

Tommy glares at the wall. “You’re lying.”

Techno looks blankly at him. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says defensively, “You’re not the most honest person I know.”

“Don’t bother picking a fight with me. Save your energy. I’m not worth it.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. Casually, like he’s trying not to show how much it affects him, he says, “So. Um. Does Wilbur text you pretty often?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” A breath, like he’s relieved. “Me either, then.” 

The thing about Tommy is that he goes around the world like he’s the main character of it, and currently, his jealousy is loud and vibrant, and it fills up all the empty space. His emotions are always overdone. Techno used to chide him for it, and say that he needed to think with his head more than his heart. Looks like that’s something Tommy still needs to grow out of.

“But I hate him so much,” Tommy continues, and his anger burns brightest of all. “Why is he coming back now, huh?”

“You got expelled,” Techno says plainly. “That’s why.”

Tommy glowers at him. “I hope Wilbur’s plane crashes.”

“You don’t mean that,” Techno says automatically, although there’s a voice in the back of his head, feeble and hushed, that whispers, _would that really be so bad?_

Techno pushes that thought away. He knows that he doesn’t mean it.

Looking at Tommy, eyebrows narrowed and shoulders hunched with failure, Techno isn’t so sure Tommy thinks the same. 

* * *

When the afternoon approaches, Techno waits on the porch for his older brother to arrive. 

The sun is dropping below the west, and the light has changed from white to yellow to orange, and the streetlamps have turned on, one by one. Absentmindedly Techno’s hand flicks open the cap of his lighter, then closes it again. It’s oddly loud in the silence. 

He checks his messages again. He doesn’t know exactly when Wilbur is arriving, but he assumes it’s sometime soon. Although he did say _tonight,_ and that can mean anywhere from four in the afternoon until midnight.

So Techno waits. He watches cars drive past and wonders which one his brother will arrive in. 

Twenty six minutes after Techno first sits down, a black car pulls up to the curb. It’s sleek. Freshly polished. Wilbur Soot Watson steps out of it. 

He’s wearing sunglasses. That’s the first thing that Techno notices— dark and tinted, perched low on his nose. They slip down when he bends to retrieve a suitcase from the trunk. He’s in this black duffle coat— horn buttons and everything— even though it’s seventy degrees in early autumn. 

Techno can tell the minute their eyes lock that Wilbur isn’t excited to be home. 

The thing is that they haven’t seen each other in nearly six years, and who would be excited to return home after that? 

It hasn’t exactly been six years. Techno knows exactly how long it’s been, and his mind whispers the time to him traitorously: _five years, eight months, three days._ Five years, eight months, three days since Wilbur graduated a year early from college, moved out west the second his diploma was in his hand. He somehow managed to make it big in Hollywood. Lord knows how he did it, because he hasn’t told any of them. 

Wilbur drags his suitcase up the steps towards the porch and stills when he sees Techno. 

“Techno,” Wilbur says stiffly.

“Wilbur,” Techno returns, just as stiffly. 

He’s just as tall as Techno remembers. Maybe a little taller, given the boots that he’s wearing. Thick-soled and black. He looks like he’s dressed for the winter.

Wilbur glances past him to the door. “Is Tommy inside?”

Techno gestures with his free hand. “Go for it.”

Wilbur wrinkles his nose as he passes. “Do you smoke now?”

Techno considers the stub of the cigarette in between his fingers, knows that he’ll shower as soon as he gets inside. Phil doesn’t like it when the house smells like smoke.

“Sure,” Techno says. “I suppose.” 

Wilbur frowns. “That’ll kill you.”

Absurdly, Techno’s mind surfaces a memory of when they played as kids, cops and robbers, breaking each other out of mock-jail. Astronauts and aliens, exploring the very depths of the backyard. Hoisting Tommy up onto the peach tree, so he could clamber all the way to the top. 

That tree is long gone now, cut down. _Termites,_ Phil had said, by way of explanation. Who was Techno to argue with that?

“Maybe,” Techno says, “Maybe not.”

Wilbur considers him for a moment longer, and then tsks. The sound ricochets. The front door slams shut behind him, and privately Techno is grateful that he’s not Tommy. Scorn coming from Wilbur is a dozen times worse than any other type of scorn in the Watson family. 

Techno takes another thick breath in, another exhale. 

It’s true. The smoking is a habit he desperately needs to break, and yet he’s terribly dependent on it. Of course it’s only Wilbur’s words that make him feel anxious to quit. 

Even from outside, he can hear Wilbur shout, at full volume, “ _Thomas Watson!”_

Techno flinches. No one uses Tommy’s full name, only his nickname, and to hear it come from Wilbur is as damaging as it can be. 

The cigarette in his hand burns down to the butt. There’s nothing more to get from it, so Techno stubs it out onto the concrete and tosses it into the garbage bin. He takes a moment to breathe deeply before going inside. He hopes they’re not shouting. Techno’s had enough shouting to last a lifetime. 

Techno opens the door slowly, and he can hear the vestiges of harsh words exchanged on the other side of the house. Techno is grateful that his bedroom isn’t over there. The tone of Wilbur’s voice is enough to make him cringe.

He showers. He wishes he had the forethought to play music while he does. Once the smell of smoke is firmly washed off him, and he pops a piece of mint gum into his mouth, Techno seeks out Phil. 

Phil is in his bedroom, like he tends to be these days, and he glances over at Techno when he enters. 

“Hi,” Techno mutters, and closes the bedroom door behind him firmly. 

“Techno,” Phil says, and moves over on the sofa so Techno has room to sit next to him. “You said hello to Wil?”

The last six years have aged Techno’s father a bit. He’s far from the sprightly young man that he was when he first adopted Techno, and far from the slightly wiser, kinder man who adopted Tommy and Wilbur years later. The stress of raising three teenage boys has certainly taken its toll. 

Techno nods. “I saw him arrive.” 

There’s muted noises coming from Tommy’s bedroom. Techno can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but he can hear the contempt in their voices. 

Tommy was always closest to Wilbur. It likely hurt the most when Wilbur left, then. 

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Phil admits, and it sounds painful to say out loud. “He went straight to Tommy.”

Techno exhales. “That’s just how it is, I guess.”

Silence falls thickly over them. The voices across the house have quieted slightly. 

“Did you still want to go to that Greek place tomorrow?” Techno asks. “I was thinking about making a reservation.” 

Phil considers it. “I was reading the Yelp review. It seems decent.” 

Techno hums. “I’ll call them, then. It’ll be nice to… to get out of the house a bit.”

Vividly Techno misses when it was just him and Phil in the house, in those two weeks between disasters. It was very quiet and peaceful. It was like being a child again, before his two other siblings arrived.

Of course Techno is thankful that he has brothers, and he’s sure that his life wouldn’t be the same without them. But there’s something purely unique and beautiful about his relationship with Phil, in that if one were to pull all of Techno’s happiest memories from his head and watch them, nearly all of them would take place with Phil. Learning how to bake. Taking fencing lessons for the first time. Playing the violin at cheesy elementary school recitals. All things that he did with Phil’s help, with his dad at his side. 

“I think it’ll be nice,” Phil says, breaking Techno from his memories, “To have everyone back.”

“How long is he staying?”

Phil shrugs. “He told me last night he was coming back. I don’t know for how long.”

“And Tommy?” Techno dares to ask.

“He’s expelled for all of first semester,” Phil says, “At least, that’s what I gathered from the email?”

Techno tilts his head back and sighs. “So he’s here until next January?”

“If he goes back,” Phil says. “But…”

He doesn’t say anything else. Techno gathers that there’s a story there to be unpacked, and hesitantly he asks, “Did he tell you how he got expelled?” 

Phil tilts his head towards him, and then his eyes go towards the bedroom door, as if expecting to see Wilbur and Tommy there. “I know the basics, I suppose. Tommy hasn’t told me his side of the story. Tensions were a little high last night.”

Techno laughs dryly. “That’s an understatement.”

“I know,” Phil mutters, “And I know I need to apologize to him for— for everything I said. But at the same time—”

Techno nods. “He’s so stupid.”

“Expelled,” Phil mutters, as if saying it again will make the reverse happen. “I can’t believe it.” 

“Some parent you are,” Techno jokes. He can tell it hits closer to home than he intended, though. 

“Tommy accused me of playing favorites,” Phil says, and his voice is hushed. Techno can instantly tell that this is the comment that’s been eating away at Phil, like acid at his system. “I don’t think he’s very glad to be home.”

Techno doesn’t really know what to say to that. 

“At least he has friends here,” Techno says, as if that’s a balm for the situation. “Being home for a semester can’t be that bad, right?”

Phil looks doubtful, but he sighs. “I hope so.” 

There’s silence for another moment, and Techno glances over at his dad, wanting to say something to take the tension out of his shoulders, but not sure what to say. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he offers, though it feels weak. “The house is… it feels suffocating.”

“Not sure I want to leave Wilbur and Tommy alone,” Phil says. 

“A glass of wine, then.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. 

“If you insist,” he says finally. 

Techno hums. He pushes himself up, moves out into the kitchen. "Red or white?"

Phil cocks his head, though he looks distracted, like he’s trying to listen to his two other sons talk. “Either.” 

Techno hums, and he retrieves two wine glasses from the cabinet. This night needs a drink, he thinks, especially because the buzz of the nicotine has long since faded from his system. His fingers tap at his side irritably, and he catches the look that Phil gives him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Techno says. “I’m working on it.”

“You’d better.”

Gratefully Phil accepts the glass of wine that Techno offers him, and takes a slow sip. The warmth spreads through Techno’s chest as well, heating him from the inside out. 

“I’m serious,” Phil says. “It’s a bad habit.”

Techno sighs. “Save your lectures for Tommy.” 

Again, Phil glances towards the room where Wilbur and Tommy are presumably talking. Their hostile shouting and arguments have faded, and even Techno can’t hear what they’re saying to each other. He’s sure Tommy will tell him afterwards, though. That is, if Wilbur won’t first.

“I think Tommy’s had enough of the lectures,” Phil says, “He doesn’t need more of them.”

“Ah,” Techno says, and tilts his glass in Phil’s direction. “Using the big brother parenting hack. I know all your tricks.”

“As long as he and Wilbur don’t try to burn down the house, I’m fine with anything that happens between them.”

Techno laughs. He feels warm; he’s never been good at holding his liquor, even just a glass of wine. “You might be onto something there.” 

There’s a moment of silence. The alcohol is making him sleepy, making his eyes droop. It’s late, much later than he usually stays up.

“Maybe they would burn down the house,” Techno muses. “Remember that Fourth of July, where—”

Phil finishes his sentence. “Wilbur and Tommy set off those fireworks in the backyard? And the cops got called on the two of them?”

Fourth of July, over a decade ago. Wilbur, with his wry smile and his freshly minted fake ID, had purchased illegal fireworks from a gas station. He had taught Tommy (barely eight years old at the time) how to wire them up so they would explode brighter. God knows where he learned how to do it. He almost roped Techno into their crazy ploy, and Techno is very glad that he managed to resist.

“That was a fun time,” Techno muses, thinking about the vibrant colors and the taste of gunpowder in the wind, “Remember when the police got called because of the noise?”

“And Cassidy next door complained to them,” Phil says, and he’s grinning, almost lost in the memory.

“They were so upset with her, didn’t she get the complaint instead?”

“All they did was make Tommy promise to be more quiet.”

“And at the same time they’re talking, Wilbur and I were scrambling to try and hide all the fireworks in the garage just in case they decided to check the backyard.”

Comfortable silence falls between them. Techno drains his wine glass, watches the final drops of red swirl around in the basin, and sets it down on the counter. He’s had enough to help him sleep and relax; he doesn’t need any more.

He opens his mouth, intending to talk more about those memories from childhood, soft and tinged with bittersweetness, but never gets the chance. Because finally, two hours after Wilbur first exploded his way into the Watson household, Tommy’s bedroom door swings open. 

Wilbur comes striding out, looking unaffected and unemotional. Tommy appears in the doorway, head ducked, eyes shadowed, and Techno doesn’t know whether it was good or not that Wilbur came home only to rebuke him. 

Wilbur glances over the kitchen counter. Neither Techno nor Phil move. There’s a pregnant pause, and Wilbur breaks the silence.

“Is my room still good to sleep in?”

“Yes,” Phil says. “It’s pretty much the same.”

“Excellent.” 

His voice is anything but excited. 

“You’re planning on staying long?” Techno says, as nonchalantly as possible.

“I took the courtesy of a three week vacation,” Wilbur shrugs. “The family card gets you anything.”

“Surprised you even had to use the family card,” Techno says. “Thought you were too big for that.”

There’s a touch of jealousy in his voice. Techno hopes no one noticed, but as usual, his luck is never good enough for that. 

“I still have to give a reason,” Wilbur says, voice slightly cold. “It’s my job.”

Techno doesn’t have the heart to say that he simply doesn’t care what Wilbur gets up to in his free time anymore, and instead turns down the hallway towards both of their rooms, leaving Phil and Tommy behind in the kitchen to talk. 

Wilbur and Techno’s childhood rooms are right across the hall from each other. Back when they were both kids, they would throw paper airplanes to each other from their doorways, when they were upset at each other. It was their form of communicating. 

“Funny that you’re back,” Techno comments, when Wilbur follows him as well. “Don’t recall seeing you around the last five years.” 

“Go figure,” Wilbur mutters.

“Same as ever.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’ve gotten more annoying?”

“Many times,” Techno says. He still lives with Phil and Tommy, after all. 

Wilbur clicks on the light in his childhood bedroom. He stops in the doorway for a second, a brief moment of wonder, before it passes. He tosses his duffel bag onto his bed, slings his coat over his desk chair, and then turns to look at Techno.

“I missed you, you know,” Wilbur says.

The sound that escapes Techno’s throat is scornful. “How many times did you call me in the last five years?”

“I’m trying to be nice,” Wilbur mutters. “You could say you missed me back, too.” 

“I missed you too,” Techno tries, though the words feel strange and sticky in his mouth.

Does he miss Wilbur? Over time, things have grown over the hole that Wilbur left. Vines and leaves and flowers have repaired the damage that was left behind. Still, there’s always been some part of Techno that never quite healed. Healed from what, Techno doesn’t know. 

Wilbur looks at him. Techno looks back evenly. 

“Alright,” Wilbur mutters, and strips the second layer he’s wearing, some thin black sweater that screams pretentiousness. “It’s a start, I guess.” 

Techno leans against the doorway. Wilbur’s room is the one place of their house that has gone mostly untouched, and it’s evident. A fine layer of dust covers the tops of his bookshelves, and grime is on the windowsill. Wilbur runs an unconcerned finger over it. 

“Phil didn’t touch your room,” Techno offers. “It’s just the same.”

He watches Wilbur poke around for a little bit. He opens his desk drawers and seems surprised to find all of his high school supplies still in there. The drawers are long since emptied, either given as second-hand outfits to Tommy or to Goodwill, for someone else. The closet has remained mostly untouched. 

Wilbur opens the door, flicks through the hangers, and then pauses. 

“This jacket,” he muses. “I forgot I even owned it.”

The jacket in question is orange corduroy, lined with white, with too many pockets and buttons. Wilbur had found that while they were thrift shopping, looking for winter clothes. Back in 2008, when things had suddenly tightened up in terms of finances and for a few terrible months, they were adrift without an anchor to hold them steady. 

“It’s ugly as hell,” Techno says, stomach twisting. 

“I think it has some charm,” Wilbur muses. “Don’t you think?”

“It deserves to be burned.”

“You always have such eloquent opinions.” 

“I’m known for them.”

Techno thinks about that stupid jacket and all the other things hanging in Wilbur’s closet. He and Tommy should have thrown them out when they had the chance. 

“How’s Tommy?” 

Wilbur blinks at him. His hand is still clenched around the collar of the corduroy jacket. With slow, precise movements, he hangs it back up. He shuts the closet door. He doesn’t respond until Techno opens his mouth again, not sure what he wants to say, and Wilbur says, “He’s a mess.”

_Even a baby could tell that much,_ Techno thinks.

“You were talking for two hours,” Techno says instead, “Share with the class.”

The look Wilbur gives him is harsh. “He’s my brother too, you know.”

_So where were you?_ Techno wants to shout. _He’s your brother, and you left him behind._

Wilbur’s face is set in stone, and he glares away. Begins unzipping his suitcase. Begins sorting through everything he’s brought as he says, “Tommy will be okay. He just needs someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. Hence why I’m here.” 

He waves a hand, as if it’s no big deal at all. 

“He’s always looked up to you,” Techno says. _Too much_ goes unspoken. 

Wilbur, the hotshot director who moved to Los Angeles and somehow managed to strike gold, even while flying blind. Phil had made Techno go to watch his most recent movie in theaters, and Techno had stared blankly at the screen the entire time. He hated to admit that it was decent. 

The last he heard, Wilbur was at the Oscars. Pretty white teeth and everything. Phil had tuned in, had apparently been texting Wilbur the entire night. 

Techno thinks it’s pretty shit of Wilbur to just ditch the family like that. Then again, a relationship goes both ways. He supposes that he’s also to blame. 

Wilbur’s voice is matter-of-fact. “And I looked up to you, and you looked up to Phil. That’s the way things go.”

It’s so hard to think of Wilbur as his older brother when he was adopted second. Even though Wilbur is older and Techno is younger, they’ve fallen into this strange dynamic neither of them can escape from. They’re always dancing around the other, not sure who holds more importance, not sure how to act, and that feeling only heightened as soon as Wilbur graduated.

“We’re not talking about me here,” Techno says, although he feels like he’s missing the point somewhat. “Is Tommy okay or not?”

Wilbur pauses from sorting through clothes. He keeps his face determinedly blank as he says, “He’ll probably throw a temper tantrum tonight and cry himself to sleep. It’s his fault for making stupid decisions.”

Techno hums. “Los Angeles changed you.”

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“There was a time when you were just as stupid as Tommy is being right now,” Techno says.

“Ten years ago,” Wilbur scoffs, and he tosses a shirt to the side. It’s reminiscent of how Techno himself sorts through his laundry. 

“Ten years isn’t so long a time.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Wilbur says, “You aren’t even twenty four yet. Ten years is ages.” 

There’s a note of irritation in his voice. Techno receives the message loud and clear. _Change the subject._

“Alright,” Techno says, “Ten years is a while. Happy?”

“Barely,” snarks Wilbur.

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Seems like nothing has changed at all, then,” Wilbur says, and slams his suitcase shut. He’s barely done any unpacking at all, more just needing something to do with his hands. “So— you’re planning on applying to graduate school, then?”

It’s the slimmest olive branch towards connection that Techno has ever seen, but he recognizes what Wilbur is trying to do, and so he plays along. 

“I've just started my gap year,” he says. “I have time.”

“Still studying English?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Still want to be an author?”

“That’s the plan,” Techno repeats, duller.

Wilbur’s expression is guarded. “And you’re still living with Phil?”

There’s a hint of reproach in his voice. Techno turns. 

“Until my lease gets finalized in New York, yes.”

Wilbur snorts. “Opposite coasts, huh?”

“At least I’m not living in gentrification,” Techno says.

He looked up pictures of Wilbur Soot’s beautiful little beach house. All red shingles and white washed walls. It’s in Venice Beach, right by the beachside, patterned with shells and waves. If gentrification had a picture next to it in the dictionary, it would be that. 

“Like New York is much better,” Wilbur says. “Where exactly are you moving again?”

“Brooklyn,” Techno says.

Wilbur considers that for a moment, then clicks his tongue dismissively. “Have fun on your own, I guess.”

“You have no right to say that.”

“Los Angeles is nice this time of year,” Wilbur says, neatly diverting the conversation, “Sunny and warm.”

Techon hums, unwilling to let him escape that easily. “Lord knows you need the sun. Or do you just get fake tans these days?”

“The best money can buy,” Wilbur answers. 

“Embarrassing.”

“Classy,” Wilbur says. 

“Good to know the habit of lying to yourself never stopped.”

“I was never lying to myself,” Wilbur corrects. “Everything I said came true.”

_Performative speech._

The words bubble to the surface of Techno’s mind like milk, foaming over on the stove. 

“I’m remembering why I didn’t miss you at all,” he says.

“You have always been a terrible liar,” Wilbur retorts, and claps a hand on Techno’s shoulder. It’s warm and heavy and only the slightest bit forbearing. “Good to see that hasn’t changed.”

Irritably, Techno brushes Wilbur’s hand off. 

He and Wilbur have always been too similar for their own good. That used to be the case. Clearly, both of them have been functioning just fine. 

“Lots of things have changed,” Techno says, “You just aren’t around to see them.”

“Like Tommy getting taller,” Wilbur says, a glimmer of a smile, like he’s trying to make a joke between the two of them. “A lot taller, I see.” 

Techno fixes him with a cold glare. “I don’t think you understand what I’m getting at here.”

“So explain it to me.” 

Equally cold, the brothers stare each other down.

Techno runs all the options through his mind of things to say, words to use, and realizes that there’s no words coming to the front of his mind. Everything in his head is a swirling mass of things, half-baked envy and sodden turmoil, and there’s no way he can shape these wild, intangible ideas into something Wilbur will understand.

“Not tonight,” Techno says, and he feels terribly heavy all of a sudden. “I’m going to sleep.”

Wilbur takes what looks like a practiced step backwards. “Sleep well, then.”

The words sound strange in his mouth, like affection is a tool he has forgotten how to use.

In the bare second it takes for Techno to cross the carpeted hallway to his own room, Wilbur’s door has clicked shut and locked. 

Techno stares at the closed door for a moment before forcibly turning away. He feels like he’s grappling with himself, trying to stick two opposing magnets together that refuse to get close. There’s no winning in this situation, is there? 

The warmth in his stomach from the wine earlier is gone. The house is frigid and cold. 

It makes Techno want to burn it just to feel the warmth. 

But he doesn’t do that; he doesn’t go talk to Phil again to calm down; he doesn’t go talk to Tommy, though he can hear his little brother pacing through the walls, muttering to himself, making a cold pit form in Techno’s gut. 

It was so much easier when they were younger. 

But he’s not fifteen anymore; the world is moving on, and Techno has to move with it.

But when he falls asleep that night, achingly aware of Wilbur across the hallway, Tommy and Phil on the other wise of the house, he dreams of the summertime— when it was the four of them, young and alive, united against the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos or comments, they are greatly appreciated! i'll be updating every saturday <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family arguments, grocery shopping, and going illegal speeds on the highway. All of them are trying their best, but Techno doesn't know how to bridge the gap between the four of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i quite literally forgot that i picked saturdays as my update day until thirty minutes ago but thankfully i had this chapter mostly finished. enjoy!

Techno wakes up early enough that no one, not even Wilbur, is awake. 

He’s grateful for it, as he sets about brewing a cup of coffee and steps onto the back porch once it's done. His hand goes to his pajama pockets, and Techno sets the mug on the arm of a bench while he brings the cigarette to his lips. 

It’s barely the end of September, and already the autumn cold has crawled across the sky. Techno can feel the chill seeping in through his shoes and through the thin fabric of his pajamas, and he shivers. The coffee and cigarette do nothing to warm him up much at all.

There’s a creaking, scraping sound that comes from around the back of the house. Techno tilts his head curiously— he’s sure it’s just a stray cat or a raccoon, but to his surprise Tommy edges his way around the wall.

“Techno,” Tommy says, caught in the act. “How are you?”

Techno's careful to blow smoke away from his little brother. “Any reason why you’re sneaking out at six in the morning?”

Tommy has the audacity to look ashamed. “I’ll just— I'll go back inside. No need to tell Phil about this.”

Techno huffs a laugh. “I won’t tell.”

Tommy narrows his eyes at him, and this close up, Techno can see how dark the bags under his eyes are. He looks like he’s barely slept, tossing and turning the entire night. Techno doesn’t blame him one bit. 

“Fine,” Tommy says eventually. “I was going to hang out with Tubbo.”

“This early?” Techno says dryly, and shrugs. “Whatever. I won’t stop you.”

“I’m grounded,” Tommy scowls. “There’s not really another time.”

“You don’t think Phil is going to knock on your door in four hours and ask where you are?”

Tommy looks vaguely confident when he says, “No. He feels bad about yelling at me so I made him promise to leave me alone for the whole day. Plus I was… counting on you distracting Wilbur.”

“I’m not participating in your little scheme,” Techno says, and points his cigarette at him. “Maybe I  _ will  _ snitch on you.”

“Please don’t,” Tommy says, looking pained. “I’m grounded for a  _ month.  _ Phil won’t even let me out of the house without someone coming along with me. I’ll go insane.”

Techno’s mouth tastes of smoke and coffee filters as he pauses. He made it just a little too strong this morning, enough that it almost feels like he’s chewing the coffee grounds themselves.

Techno considers that. “Fine. I’ll distract Wilbur, but if you get caught, I’m not saving you. Go get in trouble all you want on your own.”

The tension visibly drains from Tommy’s shoulders, and he goes to the bike rack without a second thought, unlocking his bike quickly and swinging a leg over it. He doesn’t bother with a helmet, Techno notes, but he supposes they all have their own self-destructive tendencies in a way. 

“You promise you won’t tell?” Tommy asks again. 

Techno flicks his fingers dismissively. “Don't you trust me?” 

Tommy surveys him for a moment longer, eyes shrewd, and then pedals off. He stops briefly at the front gate; Techno hears it unlock, swing open and shut again, and then the whizzing of a bike down the street. 

The cigarette burns itself down to the filter. It hollows out some already empty place inside of Techno’s chest, like there’s a space in him that’ll never quite be filled. His coffee has gone cold, too. He stares at the place where his younger brother just vanished and wishes that he, too, could vanish as easily as that. 

“G’morning,” Phil yawns, when Techno comes back inside, nearly thirty minutes later. His eyes just as shadowed and dark as Techno feels, and there’s stubble on his chin that won’t go away.

“Morning,” Techno mutters. He closes the back door behind him and locks it firmly.

Phil pours himself a generous cup of coffee, and in testament to every single morning Techno has experienced with his father, takes his coffee the same way— one dollop of half and half, two sugars. It’s the same without fail, and something about it warms Techno’s heart slightly.

No matter how much their house changes, and how many people return or leave, there’s always going to be little constants that remain the same. Their inability to remember to clean out the lint filter in the dryer until all of them are dangerously close to setting a fire anytime they do their laundry. The way they all take their coffee in the morning, all individual and distinct. The way Tommy always arranged the table fruit in the bowl so all the apples face upright, regardless of who goes shopping and who unpacks groceries. The way Phil always pries the windows half-open in the summer, instead of turning on the air conditioning, just to spite the summer heat. 

“Did Tommy talk to you last night?” Phil says, and he’s careful to not show much interest at all, even though Techno can tell the question has been eating away at thin.

True to his word, Techno covers for his little brother. “No,” he says. “He’s probably still asleep.”

Phil laughs. “If he’s not awake by eleven I’ll go and wake him up. But…” He glances at the clock that hangs on their kitchen wall, “I don’t know. He needs his sleep, doesn’t he?”

Techno takes a long sip of coffee and doesn’t deign to respond. 

Phil stares at the clock for a minute longer. Techno can tell that whatever he’s thinking about isn’t really the time at all.

“I’ll wake him up at ten,” Phil decides.

Techno makes a mental note to send Tommy the time he needs to be back in bed and changed into pajamas. He’ll do that as soon as this conversation is over, then. 

“Maybe I should wake him up sooner,” Phil muses out loud.

With a spike of alarm, Techno says, “I think he can sleep in.”

“Isn’t everyone else already up?”

“We’re both early risers,” Techno points out, “And Wilbur is on Pacific time. He’s bound to be awake too.” 

Wilbur’s presence emerges into their conversation, despite being on the other side of the house and completely oblivious to everything that’s happening. He fills a gap that was left empty for so long, but in such a strange way. None of them know how to adjust to this. They don’t know how to begin to mend what was left broken.

It’s like the proverbs say. Sweeping glass under the rug will only leave someone with a bloody sock. It will never solve anything. 

When Phil doesn't respond, Techno saids, "Dad," and waits until his father's troubled gaze meets his before continuing, " It’s only been a few days. We’ll have time to work everything out.”

“I know,” Phil says, and his chest rises and falls, “I know.”

Techno wonders if Phil ever regrets it, despite all his insistence that he doesn’t. It has to be miserable to raise three teenage boys at the same time, especially three with a penchant for trouble. Even though things have evened out now— does he ever wish that their family was different? That he could go backwards in time and undo what’s already been done?

“I think everyone just needs to take a break,” Techno continues, and does his best to push away the thoughts prying at his mind. “Everyone hasn’t been at home together in so long. I can’t wait for our first big argument.”

Phil huffs. His smile is warm. “You don’t think we’ve already had one?”

“Nah,” Techno says. “Think: family board game nights.  _ Those  _ kinds of arguments.”

Phil laughs, brighter this time, as clear as a bell. “I remember Wilbur and I having to drag you and Tommy apart.”

“He  _ cheated, _ ” Techno protests instantly.

“Maybe we should play Monopoly again.”

“It’s like you want the entire house to burn down.”

Phil claps a hand on his shoulder. “I think we’re all adults. We can manage it.”

Techno eyes him dubiously. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know us at all.”

“Tommy might throw a few hotels,” Phil admits.

“Are you kidding? He’d flip the board.”

Phil laughs again, and the tension that was building in the kitchen, a pressurized can about to explode, begins to decrease. Techno imagines a helium balloon leaking air, hissing slowly to the floor. His shoulders release some of their tension, as well. He’s sure Phil notices the change as well.

“Thank you for having a good head on your shoulders,” Phil says, and it’s obvious that he feels slightly embarrassed for worrying so much, and relieved that he still has at least one normal son who he can talk to. Two of his he’s painfully out of touch with. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Tech.” 

Techno swallows.

The words sound strange in his mouth when he says, “Thanks, Dad.” 

True to his word, Phil knocks on Tommy’s door a few hours later. Techno listens surreptitiously and prays that Tommy was smart enough to sneak in through the window silently, and is pleased to find that his little brother is “fast asleep” and only blearily waking up when Phil calls his name. He shoots Techno two thumbs-up as he pushes his way out into the kitchen, hair rumpled. 

Tommy meanders through the cabinets, open and closing things at random. He looks much happier than he did a few mornings ago, back when he was stuck inside with only his family for company. Even though Techno can’t tell Phil what happened, or what he’s up to, he can tell that sneaking out to see Tubbo has improved Tommy’s mood exponentially. 

In fact, Tommy is jovial enough to proclaim, in a tone far bigger than he is, “Pass me the coffee, Tech.”

Tommy hates coffee. He despises it. Techno knows this, because he only drinks it when he wants to act like more of an adult.

“Curious that you’re so tired,” Techno says blandly. “Since you slept in so late.”

Tommy takes the pot from his hands and manages to shoulder-check Techno at the same time. Falsely, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever,” Techno sighs, and he watches as Tommy carefully pulls himself a mug of some of the strongest brew in the Watson household. “Cream or sugar?”

“I’ll drink it black, thanks,” Tommy says, supremely arrogant.

“Right.”

“People at college drink their coffee black all the time.”

“Speaking of college,” Techno says, “When are you planning on telling me what happened?”

Tommy takes a large gulp, and his face screws up in disgust. Techno snorts. With a massive effort Tommy swallows, and then holds his hand out for the flavored creamer that Techno already has waiting.

“Never,” Tommy says, and tops his coffee off with more creamer than brew. “I don’t think you deserve to know.”

“I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Surely,” Tommy says. “You’re annoying like that.”

“It would make it easier if you just told me upfront,” Techno points out. 

“I thought,” Tommy says, with an air of magnanimity, “That dad said you should be patient and wait for me to tell you myself.”

“You’re such a gremlin,” Techno says. “You listened to our conversation?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to listen to Wilbur yelling at me all the time,” Tommy grouses. “I picked the lesser of two evils.”

“Wil isn’t evil.”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

Techno nudges him. “Take it back.”

Tommy huffs. He crosses his arms impatiently. “No.”

“He could be listening, you know?”

Overconfidently: “He’s not.”

“You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know?”

“I know,” Tommy sighs, edging on the melodramatic. “That’s what my professors told me, too.”

“Seems like they got one thing right about you, then.”

Techno waits for a smile, but nothing comes. Tommy stares moodily into the milky coffee in his mug and sets his jaw. He has that same expression on— the one he wears right before he’s about to make a terrible decision. 

“What are you thinking?” Techno asks quietly.

“I’m thinking I’m going to kick Wilbur’s ass as soon as I’m taller than him.”

“Good luck,” Techno says. “I think your growth spurts are over, unfortunately.”

“I’ll wear high heels.”

An amused laugh bubbles from Techno’s throat. “I’ll take a video of you falling on your ass, then.”

Tommy shoots him an irritated look. “God, you and Wil are just the same.”

“No,” Techno instantly objects, “We’re not. Don’t you dare say that.”

“You both make fun of me,” Tommy says, and ticks the things off on his fingers, one by one, “You both write things for a living, you both went to college—”

“You went to college too,” Techno points out, and before his mouth can clamp shut, he says, “For about a week, that is.”

Tommy glowers. “It was two weeks, and you don’t even know what happened.”

“So tell me,” Techno questions, and he waits until Tommy makes eye contact with him before continuing, “Will you _ever_ tell me?”

Tommy glares down at the floor. 

Finally, he says, “I need some air.”

Techno follows him out onto the back porch for the second time in a morning. The morning mist has long since burned off. Tommy places his coffee mug on the stairs, and takes a seat, knees held to his chest. He directs his gaze out towards the garden, wild and untamed.

Both Phil and Techno have been slacking on keeping up with it. Now, the tomato vines sprawl out of control, climbing their ways up the trellis and onto the neighbor’s fences. The basil has sprung up in places where it shouldn’t be, patches in between the chives and the wild strawberries that make summertime sweeter than sugar. The zucchini is wild and overgrown, and the buds of vegetables are just beginning to grow ripe underneath the hang of massive, green leaves. 

“Well?” Techno persists, once it’s apparent that Tommy isn’t going to continue the conversation, “How bad was it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Did you set something on fire?”

“No.”

“Commit plagiarism?”

Tommy glares. “No.”

“Get in a fistfight with a professor?”

A pause. “No.”

Techno hums. “So you  _ did  _ get in a fistfight.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Tommy says incensed, and then immediately after, “Maybe. Eventually. I don’t know.”

Techno is smart enough to tell when he’s struck a nerve. So he shrugs. “That’s good enough for me.”

Tommy fidgets at his side, brimming with nervous energy. He asks, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Techno shrugs. The height of his impassivity feels wrong to explain, and there’s no good way to fit it into easily understandable words. Instead, all he says is, “You’re my brother, right?”

Tommy nods, strangled and tight.

“Brother,” he mutters, half lost in thought. “What a stupid fucking idea.”

Across from him, tomato vines crawl up the trellis, vibrant and flourishing and green. Techno, again, is reminded that he needs to cut them back. Maybe he’ll drag Phil to do that with him this afternoon, if they’re both done with their work for the day. 

“You know,” Techno says awkwardly, “He still cares about you. Even if he’s angry.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Tommy says.

The coffee cup, half drunk, only there to show how much of an adult his little brother is, has gone cold. 

“What do you want to talk about?”

Tommy is quiet for a suspicious amount of time. Long enough that Techno glances over at him in concern, partially worried, partially wondering.

_ What happened?  _ he thinks.  _ What happened to my little brother? _

“Tubbo,” Tommy says, clearing his throat. “I want to talk about Tubbo.”

“Alright,” Techno breathes. “Tell me about him.”

Tommy clears his throat.

He talks until his voice goes hoarse.

* * *

The next morning, unfortunately, is not as calm as the one before.

Wilbur emerges from his room only a few moments after Techno does. He looks exhausted, like the bags underneath his eyes are heavier than anvils, pulling him further down. 

“Good morning,” Wilbur says.

“Good morning,” Techno returns, and pushes past him to get to the fridge. 

“You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Techno says brusquely. He wrenches open the fridge door and retrieves a carton of cream, which he shakes and then sniffs to check that it’s still good. When he deems it to his satisfaction, he pours a generous amount of it into his mug.

“I always thought you were more of a tea person,” Wilbur comments.

“A lot has changed in the last few years,” Techno says. 

He’s bristling. He doesn’t know why.

Wilbur swallows down whatever he was intending to say and gestures to the pot. “Can I have some?”

“It’s not a good brew.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Whatever, then,” Techno says, and Wilbur pours himself a cup. He drinks his black. It makes Techno’s lip curl. 

Wilbur takes two slow sips, lips pressed together, and he says, “Did Phil never teach you how to make a decent cup of coffee?”

Drinking his own cup, Techno responds, “Not like Phil’s coffee is much better.”

“Good thing I can teach you, then,” Wilbur jokes. “I have the time, right?”

Techno takes another sip of coffee and doesn’t bother responding. The edges of Wilbur’s mouth slip and fall, and he swallows, blinks, before continuing. 

Wilbur clears his throat. “Well? Any plans for today?”

There’s another call with his landlord, because he should be moving into the apartment in about a month. He has about twenty pages of editing to go through for the literary review he works for, and the deadline is in two days. He has to deal with Tommy’s attitude, and somehow work out a way to get the story from him. There are so many things to do and only so many hours in the day. 

“I’m going grocery shopping,” Techno says instead. Let everything else rot. 

“Could I join?”

“If you want.”

The barest smile flickers across Wilbur’s face. “So you’ve finally got your license, then?”

“No, I break the law every time I do something,” Techno deadpans. 

“Same old Techno,” Wilbur says genially.

“Sure,” Techno says coolly. “Same old me.”

Wilbur’s tentative smile fades. It’s painfully clear that he doesn’t know what to say to make the two of them go back to normal. 

Wilbur doesn’t miss a beat, though. “Whatever time you’re going, just let me know.”

“Not going to act as Tommy’s personal therapist?”

The words slip out before Techno means to say them, and he wishes he could take them back.

“I didn’t come back home just for Tommy, you know,” Wilbur says. “There’s two other people in this family.” 

“That explains so much,” Techno says dryly. “It certainly explains why you showed up to my college graduation.”

Wilbur winces. So does Techno. That may have been a low blow. 

“You know I apologized for that.”

Techno does know. He remembers the email. Short, bare, and cold. It had briefly mentioned Phil forwarding a video of Techno crossing the stage to him, and a brief congratulations on finally managing to graduate. Techno had taken one look at it and deleted it. 

“That really made a difference, huh?”

Wilbur presses his lips together and looks into the dark abysses of his own mug. Quietly, he says, “I’m just doing my best here. I’d appreciate some help.”

Techno flicks his eyes over him, only for the briefest moment. He looks so similar and so different. The same dimples are curved into his cheeks whenever he smiles. His eyes, honey brown in the sunlight, are still the same. Even his hair is curly and long, falling over his forehead.

“Don’t expect it to come from me, then,” Techno says. His heart burns, and stubbornly, he ignores it. 

He crosses over to the sink and dumps the last vestiges of his coffee down the drain. It swirls, milky and brown, and he washes it down. Wilbur still stands there, leaning against the counter, looking at a loss for words. 

“Whenever you’re ready to go shopping, tell me,” Techno says, at the edge of the kitchen and the hallway. 

Wilbur nods. 

Techno rounds the corner and goes back to his room. It’s directly across from Wilbur’s, and inside, he can see the shadowy scatterings of Wilbur’s belongings. Apparently he’s just as messy as he used to be, then. Not much has changed.

For some reason, it feels like he’s won that argument. Even though there was no argument to win at all. 

A half hour later, Techno’s hair is freshly washed and damp. The hot water from the shower tugs out the knots in his back with slim fingers. Dimly Techno thinks that this is the bathroom he’ll have to share with Wilbur, now, and he should try and keep it a little more clean.

Wilbur appears at the doorway as Techno combs through his hair. 

“Did you dye it?”

“A while ago,” Techno says; the last bits of the pink are still fading from his hair. It had taken about two years for the impulsive dye job to grow back out, and Techno swears that he’ll never dye his hair again because of all the trouble it took.

Wilbur reaches out with a hand, tugs on a strand. Techno doesn’t have the heart to tell Wilbur to stop. “What color was it?”

“Pink.”

“I’m sure it looked nice.”

Techno redirects his attention to the mirror. It’s clouded over with steam. Both he and Wilbur look like shapeless masses in the mist. 

“Whatever,” he says. “I’ll grab Tommy and we’ll go.” 

Techno stops at Tommy’s door and knocks carefully. He’s a little surprised that his younger brother is still asleep— it’s already nine in the morning. Shouldn’t he be up?  He knocks louder at the doorway, and when Tommy’s sleeping form doesn’t budge, Techno sighs, “Tommy. Wake up.”

Tommy doesn’t move.

“Tommy,” Techno says again, clearer this time, and Tommy shifts. He scrubs a hand over his face, squeezes his eyes shut when Techno is cruel enough to flick the lights on at full brightness. 

“Fuck off,” Tommy scowls, and raises a feeble hand in defense.

“Come on,” Techno says, and nudges Tommy’s mattress. “Get up. We’re going grocery shopping.”

Finally Techno manages to get Tommy to sit up in bed. He grimaces, hair sticking up every direction, shirt pulled halfway up his ribcage. 

“It’s too early for this.”

“It’s eight,” Techno says unapologetically. “You got up at six yesterday. Wilbur is going too, come on.”

Tommy tugs down his shirt. He glances at the doorway, like he’s expecting to see his other brother standing behind Techno. “Then I’m not going.”’

“Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby,” he mutters.

“Yes you are,” Techno says. “You’re acting like a child.”

Tommy scowls. “Excuse me if I don’t want to hear about how much of a fuck up I am for the next two hours, thank you very much.”

Techno heaves a sigh. “You get expelled and then you get upset when people talk about it. Grow. Up.”

He enunciates every last word with a kick to Tommy’s bed frame. Tommy swings his legs out of bed and raises a sleepy middle finger to Techno.

Techno has very little sympathy for Tommy, and he doesn’t bother hanging around. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready. Wilbur and I are waiting.”

“Wilbur and I,” Tommy sneers, “ _ Wilbur and I  _ are waiting,  _ Wilbur and I  _ are—”

Techno slams the door on him. He leans against the wall and focuses on taking several deep breaths, while Tommy moves around inside, presumably pulling on actual clothes. 

He can hear Wilbur rummaging around in the kitchen. He can see Phil’s silhouette in the yard, taking a break. He can hear Tommy muttering to himself. He can taste the coffee on his tongue, the aftertaste of mint toothpaste, the sweet scent of his shampoo, and tries painfully to ground himself in the moment.

It all feels so similar. So similar and yet so different. 

Tommy emerges a few minutes later, and he heads directly to the kitchen. Wilbur is leaning against the counter, on his second cup of coffee. The pot is half empty at this point. Tommy plonks himself down with a bowl of cereal and milk and determinedly does not look at Wilbur at all. 

“Hi,” Wilbur says, as though he and Tommy hadn’t gotten into a fierce shouting match the night before. “How are you?”

Tommy doesn’t respond. 

“He’s in a mood,” Techno says. “Give him a few minutes, he’ll snap out of it.”

“I hate you,” Tommy mutters, through a mouthful of sugar and milk. “I hate the both of you.” 

“This is family bonding,” Techno says dryly. “The least you can do is participate in some of it.” 

“I hate family bonding.”

“You hate it because you treat everything like a competition,” Techno says.

“I hate you,” Tommy mutters. 

“I think it’ll be nice,” Wilbur says diplomatically. 

“You don’t have to lie to yourself.”

Wilbur huffs. He slouches and crosses his arms over his chest in a way that’s remarkably teenager-like of him. “Excuse me for trying my best.”

“You’re excused,” Tommy mutters, and Techno flicks his forehead.

Techno unlocks the car doors as soon as Tommy is done and his shoes are slipped on. Upon leaving the front door, Wilbur slides out this ridiculous pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. They’re wide and bug-eyed, and Tommy takes one look at them and bursts out laughing.

“Wil,” he says, in between fits of giggles, “This is the smallest town this close to the coast. Everyone here knows you. No one gives a damn.”

“I suppose,” Wilbur mutters, and he looks slightly chastised when he takes them off and sticks them in his pocket. 

Techno slides into the driver's seat. Tommy hops into the passenger seat before Wilbur has the opportunity to take it, and Techno jerks his thumb at the backseat.

“Too slow,” he says. “Get in.”

“I’m taller than the both of you,” he complains, “I should be in the front.”

“I’m taller than Tech,” Tommy says gleefully, “Doesn't mean that I should be driving.”

“You can’t even drive yet.”

Tommy nods sagely. “I failed my test three times.”

Techno sighs. “You should never go on the streets.”

In response, Tommy kicks his heels up on the dashboard, dislodging the fine layer of dust that’s lying there. “Just go already, won’t you?”

“Feet off the dashboard,” Techno says, and when Tommy finally complies, spurs the tiny sedan into motion. 

For a moment, it feels like it’s just the three of them. The last time all three of them were together was for Wilbur’s college graduation, back when he was barely twenty-one, and Tommy was only thirteen. Techno was somewhere firmly in between, awkwardly sandwiched between the two. He remembers all three of them sitting in a row, all the way in the front, May sun beating down onto their heads. It was all so exciting. It was all so fun. 

When they arrive, Wilbur takes a cart from the line, and Techno fishes out the crumpled receipt from last time (of which he’s written the shopping list for today on the back). Tommy peeks over at it— he’s always been the only person able to read Techno’s handwriting. 

“Chips, salsa, tortilla, lettuce, eggs,” he reads. “I’m on that. Wilbur, grab the next five things.”

Again, Wilbur exchanges glances with Techno, who only shrugs. He has no sympathy for people who abandon their families.

Is that too harsh of a thing to think?

“Wil, we’ll grab things together,” he says. “Tommy needs to run around and get some energy out.”

“I’m not a kid,” Tommy says sullenly.

Wilbur pushes on his shoulder lightly. “Go on.”

Tommy wrinkles his nose, but he disappears around the next aisle before they have a chance to say another word. 

“Is this your first time grocery shopping in years?” Techno asks amusedly.

The look Wilbur gives him is less amused. “You’re not funny.” 

“I laughed,” Techno says. “ _ Tommy  _ would have laughed.”

“Tommy’s sense of humor is shit.” 

“I think he’s funny,” Techno says coldly.

“He’s annoying,” Wilbur jokes, and Techno can see so clearly what he’s trying to do. Back when they were in high school, and Tommy was just in elementary school, they would make fun of him together over geometry homework. Back when it was easy to joke like that, and there were no consequences to it.

But Tommy is Techno’s brother. And he’s never been one for setting boundaries and gatekeeping, but there’s something so strange about Wilbur trying to make the same jokes that they did ten years ago. 

Wilbur lost the right to make jokes about Tommy five year ago, the minute he boarded that plane flight. 

“He’s not annoying,” Techno says harshly. “Go grab more cornflakes. We’re running low.”

Wilbur presses his lips together and goes. Techno scrolls down the rest of the list. Heavy cream, two percent milk, one gallon of it. More cheddar cheese. 

Wilbur returns. “I didn’t mean to push.”

_ You didn’t mean to do a lot of things,  _ Techno wants to snap.

“Whatever,” he says instead. 

Techno doesn’t even know what he wants to hear from that. He doesn’t know whether he wants Wilbur to say  _ it’s not okay  _ or  _ it’s not whatever  _ or  _ I’m sorry for laughing at him  _ or  _ I’m sorry for leaving you out.  _ But all he does is remain silent, and so all Techno does is push the cart down another aisle. 

Tommy returns, out of breath, a few moments later. He’s like a puppy, full of endless energy. 

“I got everything,” he pants. “Is there anything left to get?”

Wordlessly Techno passes him the list. Wilbur, in the meanwhile, pulls his phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t seem at all interested in whatever’s going on, though, and puts it away.

“Snacks,” Techno says, once Tommy passes him the list back. “Get whatever you want.”

Tommy nods, and darts off again. 

“You’re giving him free range over snacks?” Wilbur mutters, and his lip curls. “We’re going to be eating barbeque chips for the next ten years.”

“Tommy likes sour cream and onion more.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Sorry your taste is so shit,” Techno says blandly. “Hope you get better soon.” 

Wilbur’s eyes narrow. “Why are you being so antagonistic?”

“I’m not being antagonistic.”

“You’ve been rude to me at every turn and all I’m trying to do is bring things back to normal,”

The emotion in Techno’s chest threatens to boil over, heated and dark, and he keeps his voice cool. “Back to normal? That’s rich, coming from you.”

Incensed: “I didn’t—”

“I’m back,” Tommy says, dumping armfuls of shiny, metallic bags into the cart. “Is that everything we need?”

Wilbur clamps his mouth shut, sticks his hands into his pockets, and Techno bites down the words rising like bile in the back of his throat. 

“We’re good,” Techno says, and Tommy frowns at his tone of voice. “Let’s go check out.” 

Tommy glances between the two of them, and he’s obviously getting the sense that he interrupted something important. Slowly, he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Wilbur says, at the same time Techno says flatly, “Peachy.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Alright. Message received loud and clear, big men. Let’s go check out.” 

Wilbur’s presence is vivid and angry. Tommy’s is cloistered off and irritated. Techno is sure he’s a mix of the two. 

It takes barely fifteen minutes for the three of them to check out and bag their groceries. They drive home in complete, absolute silence. 

Techno wonders where it all went wrong. 

* * *

Two afternoons later, Techno finds himself sitting on the porch steps.

Around seven years ago, it snowed so much that the deck collapsed. That was the winter and subsequent spring where Phil taught Techno how to use power tools (every seventeen year old needs to learn how to use a drill, right?) and they fixed the deck together. Absentmindedly, Techno rubs a hand over one of the planks.

It would have been so much easier for them to just hire someone to fix it for them. But Techno was eager and excited, and Phil didn’t mind so much, and besides, now it’s fixed. It’s lasted for half a decade, at this point. Clearly, they did something right.

Techno blows a bubble, pops it, and then sets out to blow another one again. 

He doesn't even register that Tommy has taken a seat next to him until he shifts, too close for Techno to be any more oblivious. 

“You aren’t smoking,” Tommy notes. 

Techno huffs. He gestures to the cardboard pack at his side. “Nicotine gum.”

“Hope the habit sticks.”

“Very funny.” 

“What can I say? I’m the funniest person in this house, hands down.”

“Wonderful,” Techno murmurs, and focuses on the sharp taste of mint in his mouth. It doesn’t do much to take the edge off his cravings. 

“Seriously, though,” Tommy says, and he nudges Techno’s hip, “It’s good to see you quitting.”

“They’ll kill me,” Techno parrots. “You and everyone else.”

Tommy grins again, though it’s a little more half-hearted. “Keep it up, I guess.”

Techno blows another bubble and it pops, satisfying and quick. “Any plans for the rest of this semester?”

Tommy’s gaze goes down to his fingers, and he picks at them. A terrible habit that all three of the brothers share. “I don’t know. Phil wants me to take community classes, just so I’m not sitting at home doing nothing. Wilbur told me to get a job so at least I would be useful.”

Techno pauses. “He said that?”

Tommy shrugs, energy sapping out of him. “I guess you didn’t hear our full argument, but it, uh. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Hm.”

“He shouted,” Tommy says, “A lot.” 

“On the bright side,” Techno tries, “I don’t see any reason to yell at you.”

“I kind of wish you would.”

“If you really wanted me to, I could.”

Tommy laughs, choked. “Not really. Wilbur was bad enough.”

Techno considers that. He thinks about how it must hurt to know that the only reason Wilbur came back was because Tommy fucked up so dramatically. What does that say about the rest of them, huh?

As if reading his mind, Tommy continues. His voice is hushed. “What kind of brother comes back for this and not for my damn graduation?”

Wilbur had been on video call in Phil’s hands as Tommy crossed the stage. Tommy had bawled his eyes out in Techno’s room later that night. 

“Wilbur is an idiot,” Techno says. “He’s the biggest idiot of all time. Hey, Toms, listen to me— _listen_ to me.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in his hands.

“Wilbur has fucked up so much more than you have,” Techno says, and waits until Tommy gives him a muffled, pitiful nod. “I don’t care how much you look up to him. He’s not your role model. He shouldn’t be.”

“I know,” Tommy mumbles. “I hate him.”

Techno thinks about two mugs of coffee, one black, one sweetened. He thinks about blue graduation gowns and the stamp of time on their faces, ever changing. He thinks about snow falling in the winter and older, capable hands braiding his hair when it was longer. He thinks about everything and anything and opens his mouth, only to find that he’s unable to mutter the words  _ I hate him too  _ back to Tommy.

“He’ll get better,” Techno says. 

_ I hope so  _ goes unspoken. 

Tommy fills it in for him.

They sit there in silence and watch the cars pass on the street. Afternoon slowly changes into the inky blue of evening. 

“You know what?” Tommy bursts, “I’ve had enough of sitting at home and doing nothing.”

Techno tilts his head at him curiously. “You’re still grounded for another two weeks.”

“Fuck it,” Tommy says. “I’m already going to be at home, I might as well do something while you’re still here too.”

Tommy’s enthusiasm piques Techno’s interest. “Alright. Like what?”

“Like…” Tommy considers it. “Like going trespassing. Or graffiti something. Or—”

“ _ No.” _

“Or go to a movie,” Tommy says, immediately changing tack, “Or go get shitty pizza together or do something interesting. Just the two of us.”

“No Phil?” Techno can’t stop himself from asking.

“He’s the one who grounded me in the first place. For a college graduate, you sure can be stupid sometimes.”

“Maybe you’re not missing anything by not going to college,” Techno jokes, only half serious. “Look how I ended up, right?”

Tommy lets out a half-hearted laugh but doesn’t respond for another minute, until finally: “So what are we doing” 

The outline of the sedan’s car keys press against Techno’s leg, sharp and hard. “A drive?”

“Really?” 

“Did you not think I was going to say yes?” 

“I wasn’t sure.”

Techno pushes himself up and pulls the car keys out of his pocket. “Are you coming or not?”

A grin flashes across Tommy’s face, and tension slumps from his shoulders, like he’s sitting up straight for the first time in days. “Fuck yes.”

Tommy kicks his feet up in the passenger seat, and Techno doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, Techno only pulls smoothly out into the street. The remnants of the afternoon are low and golden, and there’s enough clouds that people aren’t walking around. He stares at the road ahead and thinks about where Tommy wants to go, what would be best.

“This is nice,” Tommy sighs, and tilts his seat back further. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Undecided,” Techno says. “Where do you want to go?”

“The freeway,” Tommy says, without any preamble. “As fast as you can go.”

Techno raises an eyebrow, but takes the next right turn, towards the closest highway. Tommy rolls down the window. As soon as he hits the on ramp, and merges all the way to the left, Tommy whoops at the top of his lungs.

“Yes!” he shouts, louder than the wind rushing through his hair, louder than the buffeting sound, louder than the cars around them. He whoops again. A car honks at them and swerves. Tommy collapses into a fit of giggles, hair windswept and tangled. 

Without looking, Techno tugs on his shirt sleeve. “Stop leaning out of the car.”

Tommy leans back in. “Go faster.”

Techno glances at the speedometer. It’s a 60 MPH speed limit, and he’s going seventy. But Techno’s driven this road for years now, and he knows there will be no cops in front of him. Not for the next ten miles, at least.

He presses down on the gas pedal. Tommy shouts, a nearly inaudible scream, and rolls down his window further. Techno can hardly hear him. He can hardly hear himself. The only thing he can hear is his pulse, screaming in his ears, louder than any drumbeat. 

It lasts for a second, a minute, an hour, a lifetime, and finally Techno slows down. Tommy’s hair looks like someone tugged hands through it. Techno fights to get air into his lungs. 

“You know,” Tommy says breathlessly, and his grin is ear-splitting, “You’re the coolest older brother I’ve ever had.” 

Techno feels like his heart is going to burst in two.

With the most impassive expression he can manage, Techno says, “You’re the coolest little brother I’ve ever had.”

A red thread, tying the two of them to each other. Sewn through the chambers of their hearts. 

“Aw, Tech,” Tommy teases, and elbows him, “You’re going all soft on me.”

The moment dissipates. Techno shoots him a glance, and Tommy laughs. Techno commits the sound of Tommy's laugh to his memory. 

The drive back home is quick and silent. Music blasts from the radio while Tommy attempts to comb his hair back into something normal. They stop at a Jack in the Box drive through. Tommy gets a milkshake and fries and mixes the flavors together, which Techno turns up his nose at.

Techno turns the radio down as they pull into the driveway again. From inside, yellow light pours through the windows. They sit in silence for a moment. Neither of them are willing to go back inside. 

“Anytime you need to escape,” Techno says quietly, “You can come to me.”

Tommy doesn't respond.

“You know that, right?”

He stares at the streetlights, shining through the evening mist. Tommy doesn’t respond for a long, long time. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice wet and choked. "I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always if you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comments, i really appreciate them!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an enlightening conversation with Tommy, Techno seeks out Wilbur as well.

Wilbur is on a phone call when the two of them go back inside.

Tommy goes around the back to sneak into his room— he always leaves the window cracked, so he can wriggle in without alerting anyone that he’s breaking his house arrest. Techno, however, heads directly to his room, still windswept and breathless. He pauses when he sees Wilbur, pacing back and forth across from him, nearly wearing holes into his carpet. 

“You’re right,” Wilbur says into the phone, “Stop saying— it’s only for a few weeks. I’ll be back soon.”

He turns as he’s pacing, and spots Techno standing in the doorway. He raises a finger to his lips, and Techno gets the memo. Be quiet.

“I know,” Wilbur snaps, at one point, “Don’t you think I wish I was there, with all of you? I’m working long distance, this is the best I can do.”

He grips his hair with one hand, a bad habit that Techno thought he had helped Wilbur to break. He mutters _goodbye, Niki, I’ll call you tomorrow_ and hangs up the line. Techno cocks his head curiously. 

“Who’s Niki?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Really?”

Wilbur amends, “We’re working on a project together. We think it’ll become something big.”

“Ah,” Techno nods. 

“If we move fast, we could get the pitch out in a few weeks.”

“Ah,” Techno says again. 

“It would be a big deal for my career,” Wilbur says, and he runs a hand through his hair feverishly, “It could be a really big deal.”

“So even on your break, you’re still working,” Techno summarizes. 

Wilbur presses his lips together and doesn’t respond.

“You came home and you aren’t even giving yourself time to spend with your family.”

“That’s not what’s happening.” 

Techno gestures to the phone in his hand. “It seems like it.” 

“Obviously, I can’t just abandon my work,” Wilbur says uncomprehendingly. “Did you think I was just taking a break for a month?”

“Three weeks,” Techno says.

“Besides, you’re doing work too,” Wilbur says. 

“That’s an unfair comparison and you know it.”

Techno knows that he’s pushing Wilbur’s buttons. He knows that he’s exacerbating an already existing problem. But he’s riding on the high of Tommy confessing that he’s cool— not just _cool,_ but the _coolest—_ which means so much more than Tommy could have ever anticipated. 

Wilbur glares at him, as if he’s reading his thoughts. “At least I’m helping Tommy.”

 _You’re not_ goes unspoken, but Techno feels it like a punch to the gut.

“So you’re just here for Tommy, then,” he says.

Wilbur pauses. His voice is awfully quiet. “Well, he’s— one of the reasons.”

“And the others?”

Wilbur, for a moment, looks like he’s going to say something. Something in his eyes is a little softer, a little brighter.

Then, guarded: “I don’t have time for an interrogation. I have work to do.”

Techno gives him a withering look. “Tell me about your pitch, then.”

“I can’t say much,” Wilbur says. “It’s confidential.”

“Tell me what you can.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Wilbur says. “It’s _all_ confidential.” 

“Tell me something that’s not confidential. Anything at all.” 

Techno knows that he’s getting dangerously close to pleading, and Wilbur seems to recognize this too, because pieces of his exterior melt away. He breathes, says, “I have so much to do.” 

Techno considers this for a moment, and extends a hand. “Come on.”

“What?”

He’s already had his emotional conversation with Tommy for the night, time to talk with Wilbur as well. “We’re going on a walk. Come with me.”

“It’s night,” Wilbur says uncomprehendingly.

“So?” Techno shrugs. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“I…” 

Wilbur glances down at the phone in his hand and back up at Techno. In the dim lights of his room, it’s easy to see how dark the bags under his eyes are.

 _Come on,_ Techno thinks, _say yes. Take my hand._

“Only for a few minutes.”

It’s better than a no. 

“Excellent,” Techno says, and knows that those few minutes will likely transform into an hour. “Get your shoes and your coat, we’re going now.” 

“Only for a few minutes,” Wilbur repeats, even though he’s pulling on that hideous orange coat that glows under the moonlight, cramming a dark beanie onto his head, “I don’t have much time to spare, you know that.” 

“A few minutes,” Techno says, and tugs his older brother out of the door, “I promise.”

* * *

At the playground after dark, it’s very easy to pretend that it’s just the two of them five years ago, marked out in the dark. Back when Wilbur and Techno were practically inseparable, tied at the hip, two parts of one whole. 

“Why’d you drag me out here again?”

“Wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“You brought up Tommy first. Why don’t you talk about him?”

Wilbur’s frown only deepens. “What are you playing at?”

“He hates you, you know.”

Wilbur turns his eyes towards the sidewalk, stuffs his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t respond for a moment.

“I expected that,” he says. 

“You really let him down.”

“I _know_ that,” Wilbur says, irritated, “What are you, my therapist?” 

“Clearly _someone_ has to be your therapist,” Techno says plainly. “Doesn’t seem like you have one for yourself.”

“If you’re just here to talk about all of my failings as an older brother,” Wilbur says, “Then I don’t want to be here at all.”

Wilbur has never managed to fit the role of older brother as well as he should have. For Techno, it’s always been a skin he can slip on without worry. But it’s always seemed like Wilbur has wanted to be younger. That’s why he went into film, after all. How else can he tell fairy tales while still being an adult?

“I just think someone needs to knock some sense into you,” Techno says plainly. 

“Thanks,” Wilbur mutters, dour. “Well, consider the sense knocked in, alright?”

He glances around at the playground. It’s the one in the elementary school, painting bright blue and orange, eye-catching colors that pop for miles around. It’s a popular hangout spot for teens. Techno knows that intimately. 

“So,” Wilbur says, “Any reason we’re out here in particular?”

Techno reaches for the first rung of the ladder.

“Come on,” he says, and beckons with his free hand. “Follow.”

Obligingly, Wilbur does. Techno clambers all the way to the top, to the highest point, and he swings his legs off the side. Wilbur sits next to him, close enough to feel body heat, far enough that there’s a careful inch of space between them. Despite never being one for the cold, Wilbur always runs hot. 

“I remember playing here as a kid,” Wilbur says suddenly. “I spent all my afternoons here.”

“I remember you came here even when it snowed,” Techno agrees. “Didn’t Phil come looking for you?”

“I left my coat at home. He wanted to make me wear it.”

“That was the first time I got to sit in the front seat,” Techno says, and the memory comes back with startling clarity. Snow, swirling down from a pure white sky. Sticking to the soles of his winter boots. Holding Phil’s hand. Looking back on it, maybe a ten year old shouldn’t have been sitting in the front seat, but Phil didn’t protest, and so Techno pulled on his mittens and scarves and hopped right in. It was warm and safe and comforting. 

“Can’t believe that,” Wilbur says, half seriously. “Dad didn’t let me sit in the front until I was thirteen.”

“Can’t help it if I’m the favorite,” Techno jokes. 

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Ah. Techno looks down. That’s always been a point of contention in their family, hasn’t it? 

“It’s just because I got here first,” Techno says. “I’ve been here the longest.”

“So you _do_ think he has favorites.” 

Wilbur’s voice is flat.

“Why are you trying to corner me into admitting something?” Techno says, exasperated, like that’ll solve anything. “He’s known me the longest, that’s no one’s fault.”

“You know,” Wilbur says, “I remember when I first met you.”

It’s almost a non-sequitur, if Techno doesn’t know Wilbur so well. 

Techno remembers that moment too. He was just a kid, only six. Wilbur was nine, and painfully taller than him by a few inches— which was a trend that would continue for the rest of their life. He was hunched over in a dark jacket too big for him. He didn’t trust Phil, not at all, and Techno remembers being confused as to why.

All Techno’s life, the only thing he’s known is Phil. He’s never known anything else. He has vague memories of a time before, but they blend into colors, shapes and scenes that he isn’t sure are even real. 

“You were smaller,” Wilbur says. “And a lot shorter.” 

“I grew up,” Techno says. “You did, too.”

“Growing up,” Wilbur says, “Is very strange.”

“Did you ever think you would end up here?”

“In my dreams,” Wilbur breathes, “But I think all of those ended up coming true.”

Techno thinks about his childhood dreams, scrawled on the backs of his kindergarten papers. _What do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be an astronaut. I want to be the president. I want to be a rockstar. I want to be a famous movie director._

Wilbur is silent, tremulous, and Techno feels like he’s on the verge of something dramatic and wild and larger than himself. 

“The peach tree,” Wilbur says eventually, voice small, “Is it still here?”

They’re both thinking of the same memory. Techno knows. 

A July night, humid and damp. Phil lifting them up to pluck peaches from the tree. Eating them, juice running down their chins, sticky and sweet. Tommy methodically sorting them into _good_ and _bad,_ the kind of sorting only a child can do. A smile, a laugh. Summer paper lanterns, hung up from lampposts. 

“No,” Techno says. “It’s gone.”

“Shame,” Wilbur says. “I liked that tree.”

“Me too,” Techno says.

The night falls quiet. A lightning bug, flitting and yellow, dances around their heads. It’s nearing the end of their season. This might be one of the last nights Techno sees them. 

“Reminds me of being a kid,” Wilbur says. 

“You’re still a kid.”

“I’m twenty six.” 

“You’re a kid until you hit your thirties,” Techno says. “Don’t sell yourself short.” 

“I’m older than you,” Wilbur reminds him, with a glimmer of a smile. “Three years smarter, three years faster, three years better, three years—”

Something twists in Techno’s stomach, ugly and nauseating.

“Stop that,” he says, and the smile falls from Wilbur’s face. 

Wilbur swallows. He says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

Three years smarter, three years faster, three years better. What Wilbur used to chant when he turned fifteen and suddenly hit his growth spurt, towering over Techno until the end of time. What he used to chant when they were nine and six respectively, chasing each other round the yards. Wilbur, with his longer legs and his brighter smile, would catch Techno nearly every time. That is, until Techno got better at the game than Wilbur was. By that point, though, neither of them cared anymore.

It’s funny, how his childhood faded away so clearly like that. 

“It’s fine,” Techno says, talking around the lump in his throat. 

There are a million ways for Wilbur to respond to that, but he chooses the option of remaining silent. 

“I really like lightning bugs,” Wilbur whispers eventually. “Do you remember when we would catch them in jars?”

“I would catch them,” Techno reminisces. “And you would put the sticks and twigs in because you were worried that they would die.”

“And I released them all that one night with Phil. Right out into the open.”

“I was so upset,” Techno says. “I had named some of them. They were nice.”

“Wonder where they are now.”

The season of lightning bugs has most definitely come to an end. The one that they saw flying through the air has been joined by only two others. There’s not much left to look forward to. 

Somewhere out there, Techno thinks, that’s where all the lightning bugs they kept are.

Somewhere out there, with the remnants of their childhood peach tree, the rope swing that hung from the lowest bough, the sweet juice dripping down their chins. Somewhere out there with marked mason jars, with scribbling childhood names on them. Somewhere out there where their biggest worry was which song Phil would put on at dinner that night. Billy Joel or Bruce Springsteen? Techno knows the lyrics to Dancing in the Dark by heart, has had them memorized since he was a kid.

Does Wilbur still hum it like he used to do, under his breath? 

“I miss being a kid,” Wilbur whispers. “I miss it so much.”

Techno misses it too, so desperately. He misses the bark of the peach tree. He misses the squirrels in the backyard, fighting over the stray fruit. He misses the smell of baking bread inside the kitchen on Saturdays. He misses mathematics times tables and he misses watching scary movies with the family. He misses tasseled rugs and he misses being a child, he misses it so much. He misses being at home. 

“You’re still a kid,” Techno says, even though his breath is caught in his throat and his voice sounds nearly unrecognizable to his own ears. 

“I don’t feel like one,” Wilbur says. “There’s so much to do, and every day, I’m just trying to keep myself afloat, and I don’t know if I can manage anymore.”

Techno looks at him again. “Are you still living your dream?”

“Always,” Wilbur whispers. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The moon rises overhead, full and yellow. 

Techno holds Wilbur’s hand and he doesn’t let go. 

* * *

He wakes up the next morning to find that fog has settled low and heavy over their home. Everything is muted and still, the sun hidden behind a thick layer of mist, and the chill seeps in through the windows directly to Techno’s bones.

He is a man of habit, and so he makes himself a cup of coffee, and then considers the pack of cigarettes in his sock drawer, the pack of nicotine gum in his bedside drawer. His fingers itch by his side and Techno forcibly stills them. 

He’s a man of habit, and habit curls icy fingers around his spine, and Techno finds himself sitting, knees pulled to his chest, gazing out at the mist-covered backyard, a cigarette in between his fingers.

He doesn’t light it. Not yet. Instead he sits there, staring at the overgrown garden, and flicks his lighter on and off, on and off. The repetition is somewhat soothing. Calms the jitters, eating away at his stability.

Smoking never used to be a vice like this; it never used to be a thing that would take hold of him and shake him ruthlessly until he broke. But it’s an addiction, now, and he’s self aware enough to acknowledge that. 

It’s always a back and forth, a push and pull. The knowledge that it doesn’t affect him now, but it will in… how many years? Ten? Twenty? Will he get lucky, or will this be the thing that finally gets him? 

One day he’s sitting on the front porch with Tommy, thinking about how everyone in his family has told him that smoking is just a slow form of death, and going to the store to buy a pack of nicotine gum the next day in determination, and then the next moment he’s back in that jittery place, where nothing is still and there’s that bitter craving, racing through his fingers and blood and bones, and he finds himself again flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, before finally caving and lighting the cigarette. 

The shift of a body behind him startles Techno out of his daze, and he turns to find himself face to face with Tommy. 

“Hi,” Tommy says uncertainly.

“Hi,” Techno returns.

“Good morning?” Tommy asks.

“Is it?”

“I suppose so,” Tommy says.

Techno finds himself inclined to agree with him. He’s still riding off the high of his conversation with Wilbur last night, just the two of them and the moon and those wide expanses of childhood memories. When he glances back at Tommy, however, his younger brother doesn’t seem to share the same tentative optimism. Tommy looks tired, the bags under his eyes hanging heavy. Abruptly, Techno is reminded of the fact that Tommy has been waking up at six in the morning nearly every day in order to see Tubbo, all so Phil doesn’t know he’s breaking his rules of being grounded. Surely that’s weighing on him a little bit, even if he doesn’t show it.

“Are _you_ alright?” Techno asks instead, and jerks his chin towards Tommy, “Is it a good morning for you? You look like you’re about to keel over.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says.

He doesn’t move any further. 

Techno turns his attention back to the shifting mist. He can imagine that it’s like a mirror, the way the fog swirls until it envelopes both him and Tommy, surrounding them in a mass of white. 

“Did you talk to Wilbur last night?” Tommy blurts finally. 

“I did,” Techno says.

“Did he say anything about me?”

Techno turns fully to look at him. Tommy is still in his pajamas, those striped blue ones that Phil bought for him years ago, but that was before Tommy had hit his growth spurt. Now, a few inches of bare ankles poke out from them. Like he’s too big for this house they’ve all outgrown.

Techno decides not to lie.

“He did,” he says, “I talked about you, too.”

Tommy’s face goes sour, like he’s sucking on a lemon.

“Did he say anything nice about me?”

This time, Techno does lie. 

“He said he hopes you keep going,” he lies, and the words feel strange in his mouth, “He says that he thinks you can do great things if you really apply yourself.”

He carefully does not mention that’s not what Wilbur said at all; that the only time they brought up Tommy was when Techno really wanted to crack through whatever barrier Wilbur has put up around himself, to get right to the heart of the issue. 

But Tommy’s face shifts, from nervous and anticipatory to blooming wild with hope. It flashes behind his eyes for less than an instant, but Techno can recognize it clear as day. 

“Did he really?”

Techno nods.

Tommy shuffles his feet, twists the hem of his shirt between fingers, “Is that it? Did he— did he say anything else?” 

“Go ask him yourself,” Techno says, “I’m not a messenger.” 

“I don’t see why you can’t tell me.”

“Go wake Wilbur up and ask him yourself.”

Tommy huffs. He crosses his arms.

“Thanks for the news, I guess,” he mutters, and then turns away. 

For a moment Techno wants to turn around and snap the truth— that Wilbur didn’t say any of that, to ask _why do you still care so much?_ when Wilbur has been out of his life for five years now, and shouldn’t it be just him and Tommy, because Techno is the one who was there for all of Tommy’s awkward teen years, for terrible first dates and failed papers and _everything_ and Wilbur wasn’t— but he doesn’t. 

The cigarette burns down in his hand. Techno stares at it. Something rises in his chest, turning his stomach into nausea. 

Tommy is the youngest brother between the three of them, and while there’s always been some sort of conflict, some type of competition between Wilbur and Techno, there’s never been anything like that for Tommy. He’s always been envious of them both. 

But Wilbur has always cut such an imposing figure when compared to Techno, and there are so many times when Techno wonders if he was enough for Tommy growing up. After all, Wilbur left when Tommy was thirteen, right at the end of middle school, and that surely had to have a big impact on Tommy when he was so young. Techno knows that it would affect him, if he were in Tommy’s shoes. 

Is he enough? Has he been a good enough brother? Did he succeed where Wilbur would have failed or is it the opposite? Has he failed where Wilbur would have been better? 

Envy crawls like grape vines over Techno’s thoughts, and he irritably tears them away. 

He doesn’t really have the time to spend thinking about the twisted, dysfunctional unit that their family has become. Even if these are his last few weeks before deadlines come rushing toward him like a dark car in the night. 

There are so many things left to be done.

For one, moving— because moving to New York has always been some nebulous dream that Techno never intended on achieving, but somehow has become reality. To think that he’s only a few weeks away from securing the lease— just one more meeting with his landlord over call, and then a few sheets of paperwork Phil promised to help him with— and he’ll be a new resident of the Empire State. 

There’s graduate school too, hanging as an eerie reminder in the back of his skull. He still hasn’t decided whether he’ll be applying or not. Put aside the matter of _how is he going to pay for another four years of education without begging Wilbur to help,_ and instead focus on: does Techno have any idea what he wants to do with his life? Any direction that he wants to take it? Or is he drifting aimlessly, only existing as a means to get by? 

He looked at some of the essays that he had to write, if he chose to apply. One of the prompts was _how have your character and experiences formed you into someone unique who will contribute positively and effectively to this program?_

For all his thinking and all his creativity, Techno can think of nothing unique about him at all. 

The pages of editing that he needs to do for his job— working as a copy editor for a journalism firm— sit in front of him too. He needs to do them sooner or later, even when it takes all of his energy to merely think about them, let alone do work. 

He goes inside. Opens his computer. Stows his cigarettes in his bedside table and firmly gets to work. 

It’s never come easy for him, and hours of staring at a computer screen grind down at his senses. He’s tried to put on music that he knows he can stand, because the silence grates on his nerves and he can’t focus when there’s nothing to listen to, but he also can’t focus on anything that’s too repetitive or that has lyrics. That leaves very few songs to listen to, but he’s had this one on repeat for too long, and it feels like drills in both sides of his head. His ears ache. 

In irritation he rips them off. The journal article sits on his computer, staring at him unresponsively, and it’s a wreck, he knows it is, but he can’t bring himself to look at the light anymore, when even the soft lights of his bedroom feel like they’re piercing through his skull. 

He shuts his computer, presses both palms over his ears, tries to breathe. Is very grateful that the only sensory overload he’s experiencing right now is with sound and sight, because he’s had those rare times where even the fabric against his skin is too much, and those are the times when he never knows how to calm himself down or bring himself back to earth.

Faintly he wonders if Wilbur still experiences the same things. Wilbur hated certain textures more than anything; he had raided Techno’s closet one day, pulling hoodies and sweaters off coat hangers and taking them for his own; and more than once, Techno had shouted at Wilbur for humming too loudly or playing the guitar too much, twanging through the hallways of the house. 

Thankfully, Wilbur is not doing any of that right now.

Techno winces, forces himself to stand. He’s been through enough sensory overloads that he knows what will help him; cold water, fresh air. The taste of mint gum brings him back into focus too, and Techno grits his teeth, pushing himself up and he starts to walk— he doesn’t know where he’ll end up, but he finds himself standing in front of Wilbur’s closed door after an endless moment.

He raises his hand. Wonders, contemplatively, whether he should knock or not.

When he does, there’s a muffled noise of displeasure from inside. Wilbur’s voice echoes through the thin bedroom walls: “Would you mind— can I have a moment?”

Techno stands, waiting, not even sure what he wants, seeking some sort of comfort like their conversation last night, seeking solace.

But Wilbur opens the door, brows set low and face frustrated, and says, “Do you need something?” 

The headache still pounds at Techno’s temples. 

“Nothing,” he says, “I just—”

“I’m in the middle of something,” Wilbur says sharply, “Whatever you can need, it can wait.” 

Techno doesn’t even _know_ why he came to Wilbur, now that he thinks about it. How stupid of him to hope that he was going to be— kinder? More understanding? Less like this shadowed soul of a brother that he’s become? Did he really think one conversation was going to solve things?

“I just wanted to talk,” Techno says, stung.

“Talk later.”

“Wilbur—”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Wilbur says mildly. “Things that don’t involve getting in _my_ way?” 

Techno takes a step back. He hadn’t even realized that he had stepped closer.

“I see,” he says, after an endless moment. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“Good,” Wilbur says, even more irritated this time, and now they’re standing on opposite sides of the hallway. “Please don’t interrupt me.”

A million words want to be shouted into the air. Techno wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him violently. _Who are you?_ he wants to shout.

The door slams. Wilbur gets back onto whatever call he was on. Techno can hear the way his words change, can hear the way that he speaks through an easygoing smile. Can hear him say, clear as day, _just some family trouble. It’ll clear up in a few days or so. You know I’m only away for two more weeks, don’t you?_

The worst thing about this whole situation, Techno notes distantly, is that Wilbur doesn’t seem upset, like he’s intending to hurt. 

Somehow, that stings the most. 

Instead of doing something he’ll regret, opening the door on Wilbur, shouting at him, bringing the entire house down in his frustration and irritation, Techno turns on his heel and stalks away.

The house is empty and cold and yawns, gaping and black, and the sound of Wilbur slamming his door echoes down the hallway and Techno doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to think, wants a _goddamn cigarette_ because he’s not getting enough from the gum _—_

He pushes his way through the back door and finds himself in the backyard, where it’s blessedly silent. 

When Techno was in the eighth grade, bordering on fourteen years old, Phil had redesigned the garden. The garden used to not exist at all; it was a stretch of green grass, slowly turning yellow and brown with time, and a few scraggly trees. It had taken a few months for it to transform from a scrubby, half-dead field into something that could grow plants. 

Techno doesn’t know how Phil did it— though his father has always been with somewhat of a green thumb— but now they have plants that grow year round, even when they’re only supposed to grow seasonally. He’s seen daffodils sprout up in the middle of summer, roses in the middle of winter. He’s seen strawberries grow in the fall. How it happens, he doesn't know, but their garden has always held some sort of magic. Techno doesn’t know how to name it; all he knows is that things change, when he’s out here, because the world fades away until it’s only him and the earth and the sky and the wild, roaring sun.

He tries to lose himself in that mood now. He sits back on his heels, stares at the swirling mass of leaves and vines before him, and digs his hands deep into the soft earth, feeling it turn beneath his fingers. It’s soothing, to become so connected to the earth like this. It captivates him in a way that nothing else can.

This is where Phil finds him, what could be a second or a minute or an hour later. Phil sits next to him and says, carefully, doing his best to play the father role, “I heard that you and Wilbur got into an argument.”

He’s not sure how Phil knows about it, given the fact that Wilbur is the least likely person to go to Phil when they’re having an argument, because Wilbur has always been the type to figure things out on his own and Techno didn’t tell Phil why he was so upset.

“Yeah,” Techno says, and looks tonelessly down at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Wasn’t a fight, though. Just a minor disagreement”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he grits, “I don’t want to talk about Wilbur right now.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

Techno can’t help it; he snorts. A laugh builds in the back of his throat.

“You,” he says, turning fully to face his father, “Are a terrible mediator.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“Can I suggest family therapy instead?”

Phil huffs. “I don’t know if Tommy would agree to it.” 

“He’s grounded right now,” Techno says, “Might appreciate the opportunity to be out of the house.”

“Hasn’t he been out nearly every day?”

Techno stills. He hadn’t been aware that Phil knew that. “Has he?” 

“Do you think I’m dumb?” Phil says amusedly, “I know Tommy isn’t staying at home every day. I know he’s breaking his curfew. To tell you the truth, I don’t… I don’t really mind.”

“Hm.”

“I don't think it’s entirely fair to keep him here,” Phil admits, “He’s still a growing kid, right?”

“He’s an adult, technically.”

“Still the youngest.”

“You know,” Techno says, “I think he hates it when people say that.”

“Does he really?”

Techno pauses. “Have you talked to him at all recently, or are you getting all your information secondhand from Wilbur or me?”

Phil’s face is pale, confused, caught off-guard. He looks so uncertain and for the briefest moment, so _tired—_ tired like Techno has never seen him before, lost and unsure and so painfully out of touch.

He says, “Tommy and I haven’t talked much.”

“Hm.”

“We did last night, when you and Wilbur were out of the house,” Phil admits, and one hand comes up to scratch at the back of his head, and Techno bites down on whatever words you were going to say. “I told him that he shouldn’t be breaking his curfew, and he… he accused me of some things.”

Techno doesn’t know what to say, so he only hums incoherently. 

Phil’s expression is guarded, still.

“Techno,” he asks, “Do I play favorites?”

 _That_ question rocks Techno to a complete standstill. His hands pause from where they’re sorting through the tomato leaves, looking for ripe ones to pluck. Achingly, he’s suddenly aware of every sensation in his body, from the numb tingling in his right leg from sitting on it so strangely, to the scratchy leaves brushing against the soft underside of his wrist. There’s a bird chirping from a tree above them, singing to the world, and a car passes by the front of the house, wind blurring around it. He doesn't even know what to say.

It’s not something he likes to admit, now that he’s older. That even when all the rumors say that middle children are the most forgettable, given the least attention. Techno experienced the opposite.

He realizes that he’s been silent for too long, sitting there stock still, not sure what to say.

Awkwardly, he tries for a half truth. 

“Maybe,” he says, though his own mouth knows that he’s lying to himself, “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Really?”

“Well,” Techno tries again, but finds that no words shape on his tongue. He has no idea what to say.

He has no idea because the truth of it is right there, written in ink and blood and years of sweat and tears: Techno is the favorite.

He’s the favorite. He’s always been the favorite, and he suspects that’s one of the reasons why Wilbur was so quick to leave, because he knew that he would never match up to what Techno was. It didn’t matter if Techno was pursuing a loveless career or something that would turn him into the caricature of a starving artist. It didn’t matter if Techno might never enact change in the world or do something dramatic, something real. It didn’t matter if Techno was inferior in practically every way, if Wilbur was more sociable and smiling and excited to interact with others. None of that mattered, when they were kids, not to Wilbur.

What mattered to Wilbur was what they got from Phil.

And Phil… did he give enough? Did he nourish Wilbur in the same way that he nourished Techno?

“Why are you asking me this?” Techno whispers. 

“You’re the only one I think I’ll get a straight answer from,” Phil says, and grimaces in frustration, as if realizing that his statement is only proving the point, “Because Tommy will say that you’re the favorite, and Wilbur… would have, if I asked him years ago. I don’t know what he’ll say now, but.” His tone transforms into depressive, a little humorous. “I can guess.”

Techno stares down at the garden. Something bitter and awful swells in his chest. 

“I think,” he says, testing each word on his tongue before it makes it into sound, “I think… sometimes you might have been… biased.”

Phil makes a non-committal sound.

“I think Wilbur is frustrated,” Techno continues, maddeningly slow, “That maybe he didn’t get as much attention as other people did.”

“Hm.”

“And I think Tommy is— Tommy.” That’s the only way to put it.

“Hm,” Phil says again, but now his tone has changed into something mournful, a little lost.

“But that doesn’t mean— it doesn’t mean anything,” Techno tries.

“Hm.”

“Because you’re still the best dad any of the three of us have had,” Techno says, staring determinedly into the earth. His face feels hot. “Even if they won’t tell you that to your face.” 

That’s the thing about being a parent. Phil’s brave for taking all three of them on, and also a little stupid, and a little mad, and sometimes Techno thinks that he’s practically insane because raising three children from the foster system would have broken him.

But Phil never broke, at least not in places that Techno could see it, and instead kept going, kept doing everything that he was doing, doing his _best—_ but that’s the difficult thing about being a parent. You try your best and you can do everything right in every situation, but you still won’t do things correctly. You will never be enough. 

So how do you tell your father that he was neglectful? How do you tell him that he did the best that he could, but his best still wasn’t enough? How do you tell him that being a parent is difficult and it’ll never work out in the way that you want it to? How do you tell him that he’s the best influence you’ve ever had and also the worst? How do you tell him that a piece of your soul lives in his forever, and in return, you’ve taken a piece of his soul to carry with you to the ends of the earth, for better or for worse? 

Phil doesn’t respond, even when Techno looks over at him.

“Thank you for that,” he says eventually, after what felt like a lifetime of stillness. “I appreciated hearing that.”

Techno’s face still feels hot, burning with some fire within, and he wishes the morning mist was still there to cool him off. 

“It’s whatever,” he shrugs. 

“It isn’t.”

“Don’t make it into something bigger that it’s not,” Techno says, though the words feel like a lie.

The issue is that it _is_ something bigger; it’ll always be something bigger. Even if none of them realize it. 

Because Phil is the best dad they’ve ever had, and also the worst, because in Techno’s all-important opinion, he’s the only dad that they’ve ever had. 

Wilbur or Tommy might say differently. Personally, however, Techno thinks that the only reason he’s turned out this great is because of Phil. He’s not sure whether his brothers would agree. 

“It’s only as important as you want it to be,” Phil says. 

Techno nods distantly.

He asks, “So— do you?”

“What?”

Techno can’t stop himself from asking. “Do you think you have favorites?”

It’s embarrassing to ask. He’s twenty-three years old. He shouldn’t be asking this, shouldn’t be needing answers like this. Shouldn’t be seeking whatever source of validation this will become. 

Phil looks back down at the garden. His gaze is damp, staring into nothing, looking down at the garden like he’s seeing it the way it was before. 

“I think,” he says, and it’s as if he wants to say something entirely different before he cuts himself off: “I think I’m very proud of all three of you. And I hope that all of you go on to do great things.” 

“That isn’t an answer.” 

The afternoon sun begins to dip over the horizon. The light changes from pale and yellow into a dim orange, sinking lower. The dirt is cold beneath Techno’s hands. He imagines that it soaks all warmth and nostalgia from them, transforming into something jagged and cruel beneath his hands. 

“Then yes,” Phil says quietly, like he’s admitting it to himself for the first time. “Sometimes I do.”

A father and his favorite son sit by a garden that holds so much more than just dirt and plants and fruit. They sit in silence until the evening dawns blue and inky over them, and the nighttime fog arrives once more. It clouds everything in gentle, soft white. 

The mist is quiet, magical in its stillness. It makes Techno wonder, when the morning sun burns off this fog, what he will find that it has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not incredibly proud of this chapter, but im sticking to the weekly updates for better or for worse, so. please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed, i would really appreciate it <3


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